


assemble your philosophies

by curiositykilled



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Angel Dean Winchester, Angel Sam Winchester, Bad Decisions, Big Brother Dean, Brother Feels, Gen, Little Brother Sam, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-18 02:30:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5894617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/pseuds/curiositykilled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are freckles like sea spray across his nose and cheeks, like the ocean salt speckled his skin and decided to stay. He grins.</p><p>"I'm the one who hauled your ass out of the Pit," he says. "We've got work to do."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

                 When he first claws his way above ground, Castiel doesn’t call Bobby. It’s for the same reason he doesn’t call Anna or Balthazar: they won’t believe him until they see him, and they might not shoot him on sight if he takes them by surprise. 

                 He hikes down a dusty road that he thinks will take him north until he reaches an abandoned gas station. It’s still well-stocked, but there are no workers and a thick layer of dust lines the shelves and stock. He empties three water bottles and takes another two to the bathroom to wash off. Dirt and sweat are caked into his skin and under his nails, first from his coffin and then from hiking for two hours straight.

                 It’s only once he peels off his shirt and starts splashing water against his chest that he realizes something’s off. Freezing, he lifts his gaze to the mirror and gapes. When he died, he’d had an antipossession tattoo over his heart, a scar on the edge of his ribs from a dick with a knife, and jagged gashes from the hellhounds’ claws.

                 His chest is bare. There’s nothing there - no tattoo, no scars,  nothing _. _ His skin is clear and unblemished except for a strange, flat sigil just over his heart. 

                 Then, the screaming starts.

                 At least, he thinks it’s screaming. That could just be him; he’s not sure. He’s also not sure when he ended up on his side on the floor with his legs curled up to his chest and his hands pressed flush against his ears. The other sound is more a vibration than a scream, but it’s not like the gentle rumble of a car down a gravel road or someone’s foot shaking against a library chair. This is like pins and needles, splinters of pure light stabbing through his flesh and building scaffolding in his brain.

                 “Stop! Stop, please!” he screams.

                 The sound stops. The scaffolding shatters. His palms are red and wet when he pulls them away, and there are a million shards making a migraine in the base of his skull. He washes his hands and pulls on a shirt but foregoes cleaning the rest of him. Whatever’s in this shitty old station doesn’t want him here, and he doesn’t want to push it further. All his iron, knives, guns, and rock salt are in the Lincoln, and the Lincoln’s wherever Balthazar dumped it. All he’s armed with right now is a truckload of questions. 

                 He starts back down the deserted road and hopes as he walks that he finds a road sign soon. The t-shirt he was buried in - which,  _ really, Balthazar, burn my bones, that’s all you had to do  _ \- is thin and a little less whole than when it had first been put on him. He chafes at his bare arms and mutters exorcisms to keep himself awake. His jaw goes numb eventually, and it’s only when he’s fallen silent that he notices the lack of cold. It’s a breezy night, and clouds whisk over the moon like suds in a black sink. He doesn’t feel it. It’s as if someone’s shielding him from the wind on each side. He shivers, shoves his hands into his pockets, and stretches out his strides.

                 Headlights flare and disappear, and he straightens as they rumble up the hill ahead of him. The truck - an old Toyota by the glint of a round logo - slows and creaks to a halt beside him. The ceiling light clicks on as the driver opens the passenger door, washing them both in light. She’s middle-aged with shoulder length hair and a stern face. Her voice is friendly when she speaks, though, flattened out in a Midwestern non-accent.

                 “Hey, son, you need a ride?” she asks.

                 He nods and uses the interior handle to tug himself into the truck.

                 “Thank you,” he offers and extends his hand. “I’m Castiel.”

                 She accepts the handshake with raised brows, but he’s used to it. Evidently, even most devout families don’t name their children after obscure angels. Remarkable.

                 “Hell of a name. I’m Ellen,” she replies. “Where’re you headed?”

                 “Sioux Falls,” he answers.

                 She hums in acknowledgment and starts the truck back down the road.

                 “I can’t take you that far, but I can take you as far as Omaha,” she offers. “Sound okay?”

                 He nods.

                 “Yes, thank you,” he says.

                 They drive in silence for the majority of the trip. Any conversation is brief and comfortable: she somehow avoids questions with awkward answers like what his job is or why he was out in the middle of nowhere, Kansas. Instead, they talk about their families. She has a daughter named Jo who’s just coming fully into the rebellious teen years, and he comiserates with stories about Balthazar’s bawdy youth. Somewhere in there, Bobby comes up.

                 “Bobby Singer?” Ellen presses. “Of Singer Auto?”

                 “Ah, yes,” Castiel answers uncertainly.

                 Her hand stays steady on the wheel, but she turns to give him a hard look. Castiel wonders briefly if this is what a ‘mom look’ is like; he’s never known. She turns her gaze back to the road eventually, but he can feel it flitting back towards him every so often.

                 When they say goodbye, he’s startled by a strong, wiry-armed hug and a pat on the cheek.

                 “Good luck with your brother,” she says, “and you tell Bobby to get his ass up to the Roadhouse before I come down.”

                 She hops back into her truck before he can reply and pulls back onto the highway. Castiel watches her go and stands frozen for a few minutes before seeking a new ride. He doesn’t understand, but then, that’s not new. Bobby’s entire life beyond the Remingtons is an enigma.

                 A series of trucks, well-meaning drivers, and long walks later, Castiel finds himself at Bobby’s. The old Victorian house has been his home as much as the Lincoln since he was four years old, and he knows every crook and sagging corner. He’s watched it shift and settle throughout the last two decades. 

                 It hasn’t changed.

                 He squints, trying to find some sign of age. He’s realized by now that time in the Pit ran a little differently than Earth, but even if it had only been ten years, there would have been some change. There’s none, and he watches a familiar figure trudge along the hallway with the same old scowl, same gingery-grey scruff, same beat-up baseball cap.  _ Five _ years would have left a mark on Bobby.  _ Forty? _ His stomach does a twist and a dive, and he thinks he’s going to be sick.

                 He doesn’t have time to, though: the door swings open to smack against the outside wall and there’s a shotgun pointed at his chest - and maybe Castiel should have called first.

                 “Bobby! Bobby, it’s me,” he placates. “It’s Castiel. I’m not a demon or shapeshifter - it’s me.”

                 Bobby doesn’t lower the shotgun, but he doesn’t send a load of rock salt into Castiel’s chest either, so he counts it as a success. He gets tugged inside by the wrist with the gun still trained on him. In moments, his arm weeps red from a silver knife, his hair drips holy water, and his chest is blossoming with a bruise from an iron poker. There don’t seem to be any broken bones, though.  _ All in all, it’s a success _ , Castiel reflects as Bobby stares at him. Then, Bobby grabs him in a tight hug and Castiel only just remembers not to flinch at the touch.

                 “A woman named Ellen gave me a ride to Omaha,” he says, his voice muffled by Bobby’s shoulder. “She said you needed to go to ‘the Roadhouse’ sometime.”

                 A startled chuckle huffs out of Bobby, and he directs Castiel to a seat.

                 “Trust you to get picked up by a hunter,” he mutters. “Now, how the hell are you here? We burnt your bones.”

                 Castiel frowns at that. That had been his first question: why hadn’t his siblings and Bobby - some of the best hunters he knew - done the simplest thing a hunter ever learned? That they had - well, it threw a wrench into his thoughts.

                 “You burned everything?” he demands.

                 “Damn near,” Bobby affirms. “That brother of yours woulda’ burnt the whole house if he’d had his way.”

                 Another frown furrows his brow. Balthazar has always had a penchant for drinking, but it’s still concerning. Castiel had thought that his brother might be better off after Castiel’s death. They have a wide enough safety net for him to latch onto. Maybe the drinking was only for that night. It hadn’t been the best they’d ever had.

                 The memory sends a painful tug through his chest like an echo of unholy claws. Before he can even lift his hand to rub at it, though, something cool and comforting settles on his shoulders and he freezes. It’s like a quilt, worn and familiar, being draped over his shoulders, and the idea is so foreign, so bizarre, that he can’t -

                 “Castiel? Kid? You in there?” Bobby demands.

                 “I - yes. I’m here,” Castiel answers. “If you burnt everything, how am I...?”

                 He can’t think of anyone who would make a crossroads deal for him. He and his siblings have always been fairly practical, even militaristic. It may be a remnant of their father’s parenting, but it’s still strangely comforting. He’ll never have to worry about his siblings making that kind of sacrifice for him. It would be crippling to have someone need him that desperately.

                 “Hell if I know,” Bobby admits, leaning back and crossing his arms. “You don’t remember anything?”

                 That cloak returns before memories of screaming himself raw and watching his sister carve gardens of bloody, fleshy flowers into his skin can resurface. His breath stutters slightly at the feeling, but he doesn’t pause.

                 “One minute I was a hellhound’s chew toy, and the next I was six feet under Kansas dirt,” he lies.

                 Bobby’s silent for a moment before he huffs and straightens up.

                 “Then, we better start reading.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been drug back into my original shipper trashpile.
> 
> I just discovered a) I have no Supernatural fics on here despite having an entire folder labeled "Destiel" on my Drive and b) this fic which I forgot about. I have another SPN fic started as well, but this one's coming a little easier for now. 
> 
> As always, I'm on tumblr at [curiosity-killed](http://www.curiosity-killed.tumblr.com). Feel free to stop by anytime!


	2. Chapter 2

              Castiel wakes hours later to an empty house and dozens of priceless books scattered around him. It takes a few moments for his brain to stop questioning why he isn’t strapped down, why he isn’t bleeding from a thousand wounds, why his throat doesn’t burn with the stench of sulphur. It comes back in a jolt, and he sends a quiet hope to the sky that Bobby returns soon. A supply run can’t take that long.

              He blinks tiredly and thumbs back through the book in his lap. He hesitates over a page on angels. There are no images on this page, just words to describe fierce, ruthless warriors. It’s hard to reconcile them with the art he’s used to seeing. The fuchsia-draped Michael he’s seen in paintings doesn’t correspond with the four-faced, six-winged  _ things _ described in the book. He keeps reading, more for the novelty of the information than any real belief. He belives in God and angels, of course, but there’s a disconnect between his religion and these so-called facts. Anyway, what angel would save  _ him _ ?

              It’s as soon as he thinks this that those crystalline splinters return. Without any warning, they shoot at light speed to the center of the brain, and once again, he hits the ground. This time, at least, he manages to land on his elbows and knees. Windows shatter and shards clatter down around him before skidding across the floor. Books fly open. The wind rushes by - but all Castiel can hear is the glass vibration fragmenting his body.

              He screams himself hoarse again until finally, finally, his voice forms ‘stop.’ Immediately, the sounds stop. It’s the same as last time, only now, that strange sense of calm falls over him. He’s too tired and terrified to be alarmed.

              “Castiel? Cas - what the hell?”

              “‘m okay,” he mumbles. “‘m okay.”

              “Like hell you are,” Bobby snaps. “This from your mysterious friend?”

              He kneels in front of Castiel and pulls his hands from his ears. Castiel nods, mute. Logically, he knows he should be concerned, should be scouring these books for answers - but that strange calm keeps him from doing more than dully noting the worried expression on Bobby’s face and the fallen bags behind him.

              “Castiel,” Bobby barks. “What happened?”

              He opens his mouth to answer, but his jaw snaps shut as he freezes. He’d been looking down, but now, looking out across the room, it clicks into place.

              “I think it’s trying to talk to me,” he replies.

              The glass he’d heard slide across the floor hadn’t been blown by the wind. Instead of random bursts, the shards form clean, clear-cut lines across the carpet. His strange scar pulses gently, as if to say  _ ‘yes,  _ now _ you’re getting it.’ _

              “What in the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Bobby demands.

              He follows Castiel’s gaze as it traces the sigil, but he doesn’t share Castiel’s recognition.

              “When i woke, I didn’t have any scars,” Castiel explains, “except this one.”

              He tugs his shirt collar down to show the sigil carved just below his clavicle. Bobby’s eyebrows lift in surprise, but they drop quickly into a frown.

              “Well, where the hell’d you get that one?” he demands.

              Castiel shakes his head and releases his collar as he studies the larger symbol on the floor. It’s broken from where Bobby’s feet hit it, but, standing, Castiel can still make it out.

              “It just appeared when I - woke,” he admits.

              Alarm flickers in Bobby’s expression, but he says nothing. Instead, he stands to survey the room and crosses his arms. They’re both silent for a long moment before Bobby moves to step carefully through the symbol towards one of his bookshelves.

              “I’ve seen this before,” he says over his shoulder.

              “Where?” Castiel asks.

              He follows over as Bobby tugs an old, leather-bound journal from its shelf. Despite being relatively gifted in languages, Castiel can’t begin to decipher the runes covering this journal’s weathered parchment pages. Bobby doesn’t seem to notice. He thumbs carefully through the old pages and skims over the strange language.

              “There.”

              Castiel’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Bobby’s finger is pressed to a rune painted onto the page in faded red ink. It isn’t as neat, and there’s a missing line from where the page was creased too many times, but it’s unmistakable. Interlocking stars surrounding by a circle of unreadable words.

              “What is it?” Castiel asks.

              “Enochian,” Bobby replies absently.

              He’s still reading and misses Castiel’s narrowed eyes.  _ No. That’s impossible. _

              “Something called a power,” Bobby says. “Says here it’s some sort of - ‘divine warrior.’ Powerhouse, too. Burnt out three men’s eyes and killed a pack of demons.”

              “Divine - an  _ angel?” _ Castiel demands.

              Bobby shrugs.

              “It just says ‘divine warrior.’ This Samandriel seems like this tribe’s guardian of sorts,” he explains.

              Castiel’s lips press together at the name. He has a catalogue of Biblical names stored in his brain, seared there by rulers and hot coals. He doesn’t need it for this one.

              “Samandriel was Lucifer’s lieutenant,” he explains, “supposedly.”

              Bobby’s eyes flick towards Castiel, but he doesn’t comment on it. He knows enough to know that the Remingtons didn’t exactly have a normal childhood, and that’s all he needs to know. He doesn’t need to know about the father Castiel can still sometimes feel looming over him, even decades after he disappeared. He doesn’t need to know about the punishments Castiel can never quite believe he doesn’t deserve.

              “Well, we can call of Pamela’s search,” Bobby mutters.

              He drops the antique journal onto his desk and frowns down at it with his arms crossed. His hat’s bill shadows his face, but Castiel still  watches for any suggestions. Finally, Bobby flips up his hat, scruffs a hand through his wiry hair, and drops the hat back down.

              “Could be some other monster using this one’s name,” Bobby huffs. “We’ll look in the morning. Get some sleep.” 

              With that, he leaves. Castiel settles on the couch with a partially unfolded blanket over his arm and hip. His feet are uncovered, but it doesn’t bother him too much. He stares into the darkness instead of fixing it or closing his eyes.

              He should sleep. His body still aches and his ears still ring with Samandriel’s attempts at communication. Every time he closes his eyes, though, are screaming mouths and his own hands cutting them open. They’re painted in luminescent red on the insides of his eyelids. He keeps his eyes open.

              The darkness stretches the room out and warps it until it seems the familiar bookshelves must be leagues and leagues away. He wonders briefly if this is what the Rockies felt like to old pioneers heading west: a fixed point an impossible distance away. He lets his mind wander after that.

              The angels’ stories are a little hazy in his memory, but he knows Samandriel’s by heart. He had been a warrior  _  - fierce and noble as Galahad or any of King Arthur’s knights _ \- 

              He isn’t surprised it’s his sister’s voice that breaks into his thoughts. It’s been more than a decade, but he still remembers the way Anna would whisper the words to him when the dark chased away his sleep.

_               He loved God with all his heart. He guarded the gates of Heaven and kept the darkness at bay, and he never wavered. He served Lucifer - the most beautiful of all the angels - and Lucifer had always been good to Samandriel. They were close as brothers  _ \- like Sam and Frodo, his mind supplies -  _ When Adam was created, Lucifer grew angry, and no matter what Samandriel did, he couldn’t stop him. When Lucifer fell, Samandriel cut off his own wings and fell. He didn’t hurt a single angel. _

              As a child, he’d never understood why someone would do it - give up Heaven, God, everything. Anna had always hesitated and gotten a funny look on her face.  _ You’ll understand when you’re older. _ He doesn’t, but he knows now why she’d thought he would.

_               Samandriel tried to help Lucifer redeem himself, but Lucifer thought him Michael’s spy and threw him in the dungeon. Samandriel waited for years and years until he finally gave up hope of ever going home. _

              That had never confused Castiel - not Lucifer hurting his most loyal friend nor Samandriel giving up hope. That the angel had ever had hope was far more confusing.

_               But Heaven hadn’t given up on Samandriel  _ \- and here, Castiel would always perk up. It was his favorite part.  _ There was one angel who still fought for him. Michael’s right-hand man  was named Kiradeen, and he had spent all that time begging Michael to let him rescue Samandriel. Kiradeen was Heaven’s greatest warrior and loved the other angels with all his heart, but he’d always been especially close to Samandriel. Finally, Michael said yes. _

              Castiel had always imagined Kiradeen like the paintings of old: tawny wings, tousled gold curls, and a breastplate of Adamantine silver. He can still call the picture up with little more than a thought.

_               Kiradeen led a hundred angels to Hell, and they fought and fought until they finally broke through. Many angels died, and when he finally reached Samandriel’s cell, Kiradeen was the only one left. All the demons surrounded him, and even Lucifer came. All appeared lost. But Kiradeen had not fought all that way to leave Samandriel behind, and he said -  _

              Castiel doesn’t move his lips in the shape of the words, anymore, but he can still hear the fabled voice ringing clear as any church bell.

_               “I will rend my soul from my heart and my wings from my back, but I will not leave Samandriel. He is my brother, and for my brother, I would shed no limit of blood.” _

_               And his soul shone so brightly that Lucifer couldn’t say no. Kiradeen took Samandriel’s place, and Samandriel returned to Heaven to serve among the Host forevermore. _

              It isn’t exactly a happy story, and Castiel doubts it appears in any traditional children’s books. Still, it somehow soothes him. In reality, that strong a love is terrifying and horrifying, but tied in with angels and grace, it is noble. 

              After all, it’s only a story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clever naming, ey?
> 
> "Kiradeen" is adapted from a legitimate angel name, but I can't find the source anymore. Samandriel, of course, will not be represented by Alfie in this fic.
> 
> As always, feel free to come chat at curiosity-killed.tumblr.com :)


	3. Chapter 3

             The cars rumble in one after the other, Anna following Balthazar up the gravel-and-dirt drive. There’s the thud of car doors, a yelled greeting, and Bobby goes to greet them while Castiel waits in the study. They’d decided it was the best plan: seeing Castiel first would only make them not trust either. If Bobby had a chance to warn them, there was a chance it would all go a little more smoothly.

             They’re right. Sort of.

             “Anna! Anna, it’s me!” Castiel yelps.

             “You goddamned piece of shit-”

             It takes most of twenty minutes to talk the both of them down, and by then, Castiel’s arm is bleeding again and his shirt is wet with holy water. Anna vibrates with pent-up tension, and Balthazar vanishes into the kitchen for liquor. Bobby watches him go with a sigh but doesn’t stop him. For a few long minutes, the air is tight with unspoken words and an electric mix of grief and confusion.

             “So, what happened?” Balthazar asks as he returns.

             He passes a beer to each of them, though only his is the only one that gets opened.

             “Don’t get me wrong, Cassie,” he continues, “I’m fucking delighted you’re back. But what the hell?”

             Bobby twists open his bottle and takes a long pull from it. The move earns him a narrow side-eye from Castiel, but the hunter doesn’t seem bothered by it.

             “We don’t know,” Castiel admits. “We have some ideas but - they’re doubtful.”

             Across the room, Anna’s eyebrows lift. There’s nothing but disbelief in her big blue eyes. Balthazar takes another drink.

             “What ideas?” Anna prompts.

             “You’re gonna’ have to show them, idjit,” Bobby gripes.

             As far as throwing someone under a bus goes, that’s the most efficient way Castiel’s ever seen. Immediately, his siblings stiffen and straighten. Balthazar’s hand drops the bottle from his lips and Anna’s inches towards her knife. Releasing a short exhale, Castiel tugs down his shirt neck.

             “What the-”

             “What is that?” Anna demands.

             Bobby shuffles back towards his desk, and even though Castiel knows it’s to get the journal, he can’t help feeling abandoned and vulnerable. That comforting mantle is conspicuously absent and he wishes for it despite himself.

             “It’s a sigil,” Castiel explains needlessly. “As far as we can tell, it invokes a...power.”

             Anna’s eyes narrow.

             “Something called ‘Samandriel,’” Bobby adds as he returns with the journal. “Some sort of guardian.”

             Balthazar’s still frowning a little, but he never paid as much attention to the lore as the other two. Anna’s expression has completely shut down.

             “Samandriel,” she repeats. “A power.”

             She shakes her head, jaw clenched tight. 

             “Anna-” Castiel starts.

             “No, Castiel,” she snaps. “This isn’t real. Angels are - are myths. They don’t come down and drag souls out of Hell!”

             She paces, hands tangling up in her hair. It’s been years since Castiel saw it, but he still recognizes the way her thin fingers work her red hair up into a messy, bumpy ponytail before dropping it against her back once more. 

             “And even if they were -  _ Samandriel? _ From that story I used to tell you?” she demands.

             “It comes from the lore,” Castiel replies stiffly.

             That calm brushes a tentative finger against his arm, now. He pushes it away. 

             “I wouldn’t make this up, Anna,” he says.

             That stops her. Her shoulders drop and she turns to him with a worried frown and pressed lips.

             “I know, Cas,” she finally relents. “I just -  _ angels? _ ”

             Bobby finally steps forward, passing the weathered journal over to Anna. She glances through it, eyes skimming over the unreadable text, but she pauses to stare at the sigil painted onto the page. Castiel watches her brows lower and her lips thin. 

             “It could be something else,” Bobby suggests again. “A demon or something using this ‘Samandriel’s name.”

             Balthazar scoffs into his beer. A quick look from Bobby, though, and he straightens.

             “So what now?” he asks.

             “I can call Pamela up about a seance,” Bobby offers grudgingly.

             “Why?” Anna demands.

             Her arms are crossed now, and she’s developed a mulish look.

             “Why do we have to do anything?” she asks. “Whatever it is saved Cas. Isn’t that enough? Can’t we just let it go?”

             The other two look away pointedly: Balthazar to his beer and Bobby somewhere between the floor and foundation. Castiel bites back a sigh. It’s always his job to talk Anna down, both because he’s the best at it and because it’s usually his fault she’s upset in the first place. 

             “Anna, if there’s something powerful enough to pull me out of Hell,” he says, “running around under the guise of an angel - it’s going to hurt people. It’s going to get in our sights one way or another.”

             “I know,” she admits softly, “but can’t we let someone else do it this time? You’ve already given enough, Cas. Just this once, can’t we let it go?”

             She’s begging, pleading, with those big dark eyes, and for the first time, Castiel wonders. His forty years were only four months here, but time is always relative. There are cracks in Anna’s eyes that look decades old.

             “Okay,” he lies, “okay.”

             Behind him, he can hear the book close and feel Bobby watching him. Balthazar squints at him briefly - but Anna’s shoulders slump in relief. She offers a thin, tired smile that is more painful than any knife wound Castiel’s ever received. His stomach twists and tightens with guilt.


	4. Chapter 4

                “This is a bad idea,” Bobby grouches again.

                He’s been saying the same thing for the past six hours, but he still touches up one of the hundred symbols on the old barn. Castiel checks their armory once more and doesn’t reply. It is a bad idea. He knows. He’s also fairly sure that they’re not calling down an angel who was locked in Hell for a thousand years. It’s probably a misnamed spirit or a demon screwing with them. They’ll salt it, burn it, stab it, and it’ll be done.

                “This is just askin’ to get killed,” Bobby continues.

                “I can wait alone,” Castiel offers.

                He means it: he’s waited in far worse conditions for longer. Bobby still bristles at the mention.

                “And get yourself killed without me? Idjit,” he grumbles.

                He caps the spray paint and drops it into one of the open duffel bags. A pair of sawhorses with half-rotted boards across them serve as their table, and it’s full of weapons and ingredients. Bobby gives Castiel another moment to change his mind, but Castiel merely meets his gaze, unblinking. Bobby sighs.

                “At least we told your brother,” he says. “If we’re gonna’ get killed out here, someone should get the tools.”

                It was one of two reasons for telling Balthazar their plan. The other was so that he would keep Anna distracted. Castiel doesn’t want to guess what his younger brother took that instruction to mean, but he hasn’t gotten any irate calls yet.  _ So far so good. _

                Bobby doesn’t say anymore before beginning the incantation. His voice drops low and monotone and white smoke starts puddling up like dry ice over the bowl. Castiel’s hand tightens on his pistol, and Bobby trades the bowl for a shotgun once the incantation’s finished.

                They wait.

                “Are you sure that was the proper incantation?” Castiel asks two hours later.

                Bobby glares at him. His legs are swinging off the edge of the table, but his hands are firm around the gun. Castiel takes the hint and doesn’t press. His skin still itches with apprehension. The spell should have summoned any spirit immediately. Something’s wrong.

                In a moment, he starts to grasp just how wrong it is. Sheet metal starts fluttering on the roof, banging up and down as the wind gusts. The lightbulbs burst overhead. They brace themselves, Bobby with his shotgun and Castiel with his knife. Sparks rain down and the doors swing open to crack against the interior walls. A dark figure is silhouetted in the opening.

                Castiel isn’t sure what he expected, but it wasn’t this. The figure that saunters in has messy hair, a rumpled button-up, slightly bowed legs. For a heartbeat, he’s convinced Bobby’s wrong; some farmer still uses this land. Then the moon slips out from behind some clouds and illuminates the newcomer’s face. It’s not a farmer.

                Bobby fires, but the intruder’s easy strides don’t falter. Castiel lunges to bury his knife hilt-deep in its chest. 

                “Really?”

                Whatever it is, it doesn’t sound like a demon. It’s voice is amused, a little exasperated. There’s none of the usual condescension. 

                “I liked this shirt,” it complains.

                It raises a hand to block Bobby’s crowbar almost absentmindedly and pulls the knife from his chest with the other. Dropping the knife onto the ground, it turns and grips Bobby’s upraised arm. His eyes roll back and shut, and he crumples to the ground. Castiel grabs a pistol and points it at the intruder. Its eyebrow raises.

                “That’s really not gonna’ do much,” it remarks.

                He fires anyway. It’s right.

                “Who are you?” he demands.

                He backs away, still edging towards the table. If a demon-killing blade, silver bullets, and rock salt aren’t going to do anything, he doubts a wooden stake will. Still, it’s his best bet at stalling. It grins lazily, crinkling sun-warmed skin. There are freckles like sea spray across its nose and cheeks, like the ocean salt speckled its skin and decided to stay.

                “Most people call me Dean, now,” it answers.

                Its button-up bunches as it slides its hands into its jean pockets, and the casual gesture causes a strange disconnect in Castiel’s mind. Whatever this thing is, it’s nearly invincible. It shouldn’t walk with a loose back and introduce itself with an archetypal Midwestern name.

                “We summoned Samandriel,” Castiel snaps. “Why are you here?”

                “Sammy?” Dean asks. “ _ Oh. _ You used that sigil, didn’t you?”

                Castiel stares at him. Dean waves a hand carelessly.

                “Yeah, that’s not Sam’s calling sign,” he replies.

_                 ‘Sam’? ‘Sammy’? _ Fear branches up his throat from its roots in his chest. Fine, crystalline twigs brush at the back of his mouth. Who could possibly be close enough to an angel to give it pet names?

                “What are you?” he demands.

                “I’m the one who hauled your ass out of the Pit,” Dean explains. 

                “Thanks for that,” Castiel retorts. “What do you want with me?”

                Dean cants his head to the side, and Castiel can just make out a frown on his face. The moon doesn’t provide a lot of light this far into the barn, but Dean seems to illuminate himself. There’s a subterranean glow just below his skin. It shades the freckles flung out across his cheeks and centers in green eyes that focus solely on Castiel. He itches.

                “The Big Guy called,” Dean says. “We got work to do.”

                “The Big Guy?” Castiel echoes. “You’re trying to tell me you’re an angel?”

                He scoffs, but he doesn’t tear his gaze from Dean. He can’t. There’s something electric, magnetic, about him.

                “What? You don’t think I’m an angel?” Dean asks.

                “Angels are myths,” Castiel spits. “They’re divine wrath made flesh - they don’t wear flannel!”

                Something flickers across Dean’s face that Castiel can’t quite read. It’s too fast and the room’s too dark. Then he rolls his shoulders back and thunder cracks, deafening on the metal of the roof. For a suspended breath, the barn is lit by lightning, and broad dark shadows unfurl across the walls and ceiling. Castiel’s breath catches, because those? Those are wings.

                “Holy shit,” he breathes.

                They look ragged, feathers bent funny along the edges and whole patches missing, but they are unmistakeable. Dean preens.

                “Still think I’m a myth?” he quips.

                Castiel stumbles back, a hand catching on the edge of the table as he stares. The lightning fades abruptly, taking the wings with it. He can’t tear his eyes away from where they were.

                “Why?” he asks.

                His voice is hoarse, stripped bare. It’s the only question that’s left, the only question there really ever was. Why him? Why pull him out?  _ Why? _ Dean tilts his head again, but this time his eyes look a little soft. Sad, almost. Castiel feels fear spoil and sicken in the back of his throat.

                “We've got work to do,” Dean repeats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da!
> 
> As always, [ come chat](http://www.curiosity-killed.tumblr.com/ask)!


	5. Chapter 5

They trudge in with Bobby leaning heavily on Castiel. He says he feels fine, only a little dizzy. Castiel isn’t sure what to say, so he keeps quiet and leads them from the old pickup up the porch steps into the house. They barely get inside when the shit hits the fan.

“Oh, you’re alive. I’d almost thought you got yourself killed,” Anna greets.

“Balls,” Bobby mutters.

She lets Castiel settle Bobby on the couch before laying into him. Small mercies, he supposes.

“Castiel, you promised me you wouldn’t do this!” she snaps. “You promised you would let this go.”

“Anna-”

“No, I’m not done,” she spits. “You could have died, Cas! You - or Bobby - you both could’ve gotten killed, and then what? You’d leave me and Balthazar alone after we just got you back? Did you even think about us?”

He bows his head and stares at his boots. They’re dirty from the barn floor and scuffed from years before that. The nicks and scratches on them change by the week, but the overall impression is roughly the same. They’re work shoes, used shoes. He feels a certain solidarity with them.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it, Cas!” Anna snaps back. “Sorry doesn’t change that you lied or that you could’ve died.”

Castiel hunches his shoulders down and in. He doesn’t know what to say. Anna has always felt more deeply than either of her brothers - in both joy and despair. In his more selfish moments, he’s said that she cares too much.

“Yes, yes, Cassie here shouldn’t have run off on his lonesome - but come on now,” Balthazar breaks in. 

Castiel glances up to find his brother slouched in the doorway between the kitchen and study, a bag of frozen peas in one hand. He’s got the start of a shiner around his left eye, and Castiel thinks he can pick out the indent of Anna’s ring just on the arch of his cheekbone.

Anna’s lips purse, but she doesn’t object. It’ll come up later, Castiel knows.

“So?” Balthazar presses. “Your angel show up?”

“Yes,” Castiel replies.

Whatever the other two were expecting, it wasn’t that. The room as still as a bomb drop: Anna’s expression has lost any hint of anger in exchange for blankness, and Balthazar’s hand freezes with the peas halfway to his face.

“Samandriel showed up,” Anna says.

Her voice is flat as a blank page, and Castiel hesitates as he tries to decide how to reply.

“Not exactly,” he finally hedges. “An angel arrived, but his name is Dean.”

The shock dissipates rapidly. Balthazar laughs aloud and presses the peas to his cheek. Anna’s eyes narrow in disbelief, and Bobby stays as silent as he had the entire way home. Castiel’s stomach sinks towards his battered boots.

“You mean to say that an angel named  _ Dean _ pulled you out of Hell?” Anna demands. “Jesus, Cas.”

“It is the name he gave me,” Castiel replies.

“Then he’s a fucking demon, Cassie,” Balthazar scoffs. “Or a spirit - or hell, a new kinda’ fairy.”

“Never met a demon who’s immune to that knife of yours,” Bobby remarks.

Castiel can’t remember ever being so relieved to hear that voice in his life. Anna’s disbelief shifts a little into concern, and even with half his face hidden by the peas, Balthazar’s frown is apparent.

“He - he said that God commanded it and that we have work to do,” Castiel continues.

“What kind of work?” Anna asks.

His shoulders lift and drop in a shrug. He met the man - the angel - for barely an hour. Whatever reason Dean had for pulling Castiel out of Hell or for telling him that God had work for him, Castiel didn’t know. He should have asked more, perhaps, or picked better questions. He’d been a little overwhelmed.

“Great,” Balthazar exhales. “We’ve got an angel with a fake name, Castiel back from the dead, and some mysterious work we don’t know shit about. What do we do now?”

Anna sighs and shoots a side-eye towards Castiel before dropping her hands to her hips.

“What we always do,” she says. “We kill monsters and we keep our eyes open for anything big.”

It’s not exactly a failproof plan, but Castiel can’t think of any others. Dean hadn’t exactly left his number, and Castiel has a feeling that the sigil they used won’t work all that well a second time. He isn’t sure why, but it had seemed as if Dean came because he wanted to, not because of any magic spell. For now, they’re at the angel’s mercy.

They disband slowly, separating off to their individual tasks. Castiel ends up on the couch reading lore. It says only what he’s already read, and he drifts off with a book spread open over his chest. 

For the first time, he doesn’t dream of blood or fire or torture. He dreams of gold.  It’s a too-bright light and a figure beyond human comprehension, but in his dream, in his memory, he can see and understand. He aches with the purity radiating from it and he calls out a name unspoken by human tongue. He shudders with awe as it descends and replies.

_               “Rejoice, Beloved. At the end of everything, here you are found.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So just a head's up: since I'm trying to do this write-a-chapter-a-day thing, there's no beta-ing and basically no editing, so if you see an error (either conventions or continuity or whatever), please tell me! I absolutely won't be offended.
> 
> Anyway, thank you for your sweet comments and hope you're enjoying the fic!


	6. Chapter 6

            Three days later, they’re too preoccupied to worry about Castiel’s angel. There’s something killing hunters despite the salt lines and EMF meters littered around them.

            “What the hell kinda’ monster goes after hunters?” Balthazar asks.

            Castiel steps carefully around the third dead body they’ve checked and nudges the shotgun beside them with a toe. One shell’s still inside it, the other fired somewhere in the house.

            “It would make sense,” he offers. “We kill them everyday.”

            “This is different,” Anna objects. “If we’re on the hunt, sure, they’ll protect themselves but not like this. Something’s wrong here.”

            Frowning down at the hunter’s shredded chest, Castiel doesn’t reply. It’s true, after all. It’s what makes them monsters: they go after the innocent, the ones who can’t protect themselves. Hunters don’t fall into that boat.

            “I’ll call Bobby,” Balthazar sighs.

            They traipse out of the house in a weary, wary line, but they still haven’t gotten ahold of Bobby four hours down the road. Anna’s hands are white-knuckled on the steering wheel, and Castiel grips his gun a little closer while Balthazar chatters nervously. By the time they reach Sioux Falls, Castiel is contemplating the consequences of flinging himself out of the car and hoofing it the rest of the way. From the looks Anna keeps shooting the rearview mirror, she is, too.

            Bobby’s house is eerily silent and empty. Chills send goosebumps up Castiel’s skin even in the broad, bright light of day. They scour the house from basement to attic. There’s an ashy poker laying at the foot of the stairs and shotgun shells littered across the floor. Their hands tighten on their guns and fan out to cover the yard as well.

            “Bobby? Bobby!” they call.

            There’s no reply.

            Castiel tightens his hands on the gun and weaves through the stacked cars outside. They still don’t know what’s happening, have no idea how to stop it or hunt it down. The unknown makes his skin crawl. 

_             Although _ , he thinks as his breath huffs out white,  _ that might also be the ghost. _ He whirls around and freezes. Jimmy’s hair is messy and his skin ruddy with dirt and sweat. His suit is torn and tattered, the same one he died in. Castiel can’t move.

            “Hey, Cas,” Jimmy greets. “Remember me?”

            He grins, but it doesn’t look like his smile. It looks unhinged, manic. Like something has taken Jimmy Novak’s skin and stretched it over a new beast like a mask. Nausea roils in Castiel’s gut.

            “Jimmy,” he breathes out.

            “So you do!” Jimmy laughs. “Funny, since you apparently forgot all about that promise you made me. That itty bitty promise.”

            Castiel’s stomach drops, and his eyes burn.

            “Keep my family safe,” Jimmy echoes. “Just make sure they’re okay. That’s all. And - and here’s the kicker. Do you remember what you said? Do you?”

_             Yes. Always. _ He can’t turn away, can’t raise his gun. He’s been here before, and he can’t make himself go through it again.

            “‘Of course,’” Jimmy laughs again. “‘Of course, Jimmy.’ That’s what you said. That’s what you  _ promised. _ ”

            He drops his voice low in an impersonation of Castiel, but it’s unnecessary. He remembers. He’ll always remember.

            “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

            Jimmy surges forward. His hand’s around Castiel’s neck, and it doesn’t matter that Jimmy had a desk job and ran 5ks for fun. Here, now, his spirit is strong and angry. Castiel can barely pull a breath through his throat. Jimmy slams him up against a car that gives under the force of the blow. Castiel catches a glimpse of something on Jimmy’s hand, a patch of skin raised like a scar.

            “Sorry?  _ Sorry?! _ ” Jimmy snarls. “You son of a bitch, sorry doesn’t-”

            A shotgun blast breaks Jimmy apart, and Castiel drops to his knees, gasping. Anna tugs him up by the shoulder, worried eyes scouring his face.

            “Find anything?” she asks.

            He manages to shake his head before tilting it back against the car to catch his breath. It’s a fluke, a chance that lets him spot it. Ice, creeping up a side mirror. Castiel narrows his eyes and lurches to standing. The car is at the top of the stack, and he has no clue how to get up there.

            “Cas?” Anna asks.

            “There,” he says, pointing to the car.

            Anna curses, and then they set to work. It takes too long, Castiel’s sure they’ll be too late, but finally, finally, they get two shots in through the little girls’ heads and Bobby gasps and stumbles back down to the ground with them.

            “Where’s Balthazar?” Castiel demands.

            For a moment, Anna freezes. Then she turns and bolts back to the house. Once Bobby is back on his feet, they follow. There’s a shot right as they reach the door, and Anna drags Balthazar down the stairs after her. His face is bleeding, the black eye he’d gotten from her reopened. 

            “Basement,” Bobby orders.

            They follow him down, and somehow, Castiel isn’t even surprised that Bobby has an iron-clad panic room. The old man is paranoid beyond any rationality, but their lives are far beyond rationality.

            “What the hell is going on?” Balthazar demands.

            He’s rattled and shaken, eyes wide in a pale face.

            “There was a mark - on Jimmy’s hand,” Castiel says. “It looked like a brand.”

            Bobby squints at him, but Balthazar nods.

            “Yeah,” he agrees. “Like a circle with squiggles? It was on Meg, too.”

            Castiel snags a piece of paper and marker and scribbles the symbol out with its funky ‘x’ and odd peaks. Balthazar confirms it.

            “I’ve seen that before,” Bobby grumbles.

            The siblings share a baffled look, but he’s already turning to a bookshelf along the far wall of the panic room. He tugs down a stack of books and passes a chunk to each of them. Balthazar grimaces and holds his hands up as if to ward away the books.

            “I’ll just make some more salt rounds, if you don’t mind,” he says.

            Anna rolls her eyes, but no one objects. Instead, they settle into their respective spots and get to work. Leafing through the first book he receives, Castiel finds nothing but words he doesn’t understand and anatomical diagrams of various monsters. His eyebrows raise but he sets it aside. How a werewolf transitions is interesting, but it isn’t very relevant at the moment. He turns to the next.

            An hour later, Anna’s hand shoots up in triumph.

            “Anna, we’re not in grade school any more,” Balthazar comments.

            She shoots a half-hearted glare his way but drops her hand anyway.

            “I found it,” she says instead. “Right here, it’s the Mark of the Witness.”

            Balthazar and Castiel share a bemused look, but Bobby squints directly at Anna like he’s trying to remember something. He snags the book from her without a word.

            “Balls,” he mutters.

            “What is it?” Castiel asks.

            “Long story short: Revelations,” Bobby replies.

            This time, all three Remingtons blink at him in confusion after a quick glance between them. They are all intimately familiar with the Bible and all books therein, including Revelations. None of them remember anything that matches what they’ve experienced.

            “It’s an old version - the original as far as anybody can tell,” Bobby explains. “The Rising of the Witnesses. It’s the first sign of the Apocalypse.”

            Anna straightens up, eyes going to that blank state they adopt whenever she refuses to believe something. Balthazar doesn’t speak, but he’s eyeing the salt round in his hand like he wishes it was a beer. The room is silent for a few minutes longer.

            “Please tell me you’re joking,” Balthazar finally asks.

            From the side-eye Bobby shoots them all, he’s not. 

            “Okay, so we’ve got an angel and the apocalypse in one week,” Balthazar sighs. “Great.”

            “How do we stop it?” Castiel asks.

            Bobby huffs and ruffles back and forth through a couple of pages.

            “There’s a spell, but we’re gonna’ need the fireplace upstairs,” he says.

            Castiel nods. It won’t be ideal, but they can set up strategically, make sure none of these ghosts get near Bobby till he’s finished the spell. Anna’s the best shot, so she can guard while the other two fetch the ingredients. It’s inconvenient but should be feasible.

            Across the room, Balthazar groans.They turn as one towards him and he holds up a hand in a shrug.

            “What? This iron-plated panic room just sounds a little nicer,” he protests.

            Anna rolls her eyes and picks up her gun. They aren’t going to stop any apocalypses from the basement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I read the entire book of Revelations today. That was weird.


	7. Chapter 7

                    When Castiel wakes, it’s still dark. Anna is curled up on the couch beside him, and Balthazar is a dark lump a few feet to his right. If he really wanted to, he could reach out a hand and brush his brother’s shoulder. There’s a pressure on his mind that keeps from doing so. Instead, he rolls back onto his feet and walks to the kitchen.

                    Dean’s already waiting. He’s little more than a silhouette leaning against the counter, but Castiel can make out the rumpled flannel and ruffled hair. He still looks like he’s been driving down the highway with the windows down, and Castiel can’t quite still the disbelief that lingers in his heart. He’s an ange. _Sure_. It’s hard to make that more than a myth, even with the solid proof before him.

                    “I’m dreaming,” Castiel says as he steps into the kitchen, “aren’t I?”

                    Dean grins and cocks a finger gun at him.

                    “Got it in one,” he affirms. 

                    Castiel hesitates before the angel, trying to piece together his careless grin and flannel and the stories he’d heard all his life. For a few moments, Dean watched him back in silence.

                    “Nice job with the Witnesses, by the way,” he finally remarked.

                    Immediately, Castiel tenses and frowns.

                    “You knew?” he demands.

                    “Of course,” Dean scoffs. “I wouldn’t be much of an angel if I missed the Apocalypse.”

                    He says it easily, carelessly, like it’s a forgotten homework assignment and not the end of the world. Castiel’s hands clench into fists by his thighs.

                    “Of course,” he echoes bitterly. “You knew about us getting hit with the start of the Apocalypse, and you didn’t do anything. What kind of angel are you?”

                    Dean straightens and his shoulders stiffen. That easy grin is gone now, and even with the moonlight just sketching out his features, he looks solemn, stony. For an instant, Castiel expects those great, broken wings to reappear.

                    “In case you hadn’t noticed, Cas, angels aren’t your baby-faced cherubim,” Dean spits. “We’re soldiers of God. We aren’t here to sit on your shoulder: we have a war to fight.”

                    There is something ancient and wrathful in his voice that makes Castiel’s very core quiver.

                    “And the Apocalypse isn’t part of that?” Castiel still snaps.

                    “What, can’t deal with a couple pissed-off ghosts?” Dean taunts. “Maybe we got the wrong man.”

                    “Since you won’t tell me why you pulled me out, maybe you did,” Castiel retorts.

                    Dean’s lips thin, and he shifts back to rest his lower back against the counter again. He exhales once, just enough for Castiel to realize he hadn’t been breathing before. He tries not to think about that. He doesn’t really want to know why a divine warrior looks just like a human. Somewhere deep inside him, he knows it’s the same reason demons look just like them, too.

                    “The Witnesses you dealt with - they were just the pawns,” Dean explains. “We had bigger issues to deal with.”

                    The words come out of him grudgingly, like any explanation is too much.

                    “Bigger issues?” Castiel echoes. “People were killed - people were ripped to shreds. You had ‘bigger issues’?”

                    Dean’s lips thin, but he doesn’t reply. Castiel huffs a breath and leans back into his heel. He doesn’t believe he can wait out an angel,  but he’s still reluctant to give it up just yet. He wants answers of some sort.

                    “Fine. So Bobby was right - this is a sign of the Apocalypse?” he asks after several long moments.

                    “It’s why I’m here,” Dean replies. “Big shit going down.”

_                     Of course. _ It’s never a simple or easy answer in the Remingtons’ lives. Honestly, he doubts it is in any hunter’s life. Somehow, chasing down and slaying things that aren’t even supposed to exist doesn’t lend itself to a normal life.

                    “What type of ‘big shit’?” he asks.

                    “The rising of the witnesses is one of the sixty-six seals,” Dean explains. “They’re being broken by Lilith to free Lucifer.”

                    Castiel blinks in the silence after that bomb drop. He believes in the devil in the same abstract way he believes in God and, before this, angels. They might be real, but if they are, it’s not in the definite sense. Maybe they watch over the earth or apply an occasional tug. They don’t walk the earth.

                    “You’re lying,” he says.

                    Dean laughs.

                    “Trust me, bud, I wish I was,” he replies. “The seals are like locks on a door. Once Lilith gets that sixty-sixth opened - boom.”

                    He flexes his hands in intimations of explosions, and Castiel finds himself too distracted by that inane motion to focus on the big picture for a moment. It’s a coping mechanism, he knows. It doesn’t stop him from blinking at those calloused fingers splayed out in the suggestion of destruction.

                    “Lucifer walks free,” Castiel finishes. “That’s why you’re here.”

                    Dean nods once.

                    “Then, what’s the next one?” Castiel asks. “Since we stopped this one, can Lilith just go for any other?”

                    He wants to gag a little as his lips shape the demon’s name. He can still feel her hellhounds’ claws, their digging nails biting through his flesh and bone and - 

                    That strange cloak falls gentle over his shoulders. He freezes, eyes flicking to the shadows that just moved on the wall.  _ Oh. _ It clicks and settles into place, and he lets himself relax into the wings he can’t see.

                    “We didn’t stop this seal,” Dean says. “The witnesses were raised and it was broken. We lost this one.”

                    Castiel stares at him in disbelief. He doesn’t get a chance to express it further, though; Dean seems to sense it on his own and his shoulders hunch as his arms cross. There’s a mulish expression on his face now.

                    “There are a lot of seals,” he explains, “and we can’t tell which ones she’ll go after. The Host is - it’s huge, but it’s not unlimited. I’m losing brothers everyday in the field for this fight. We’re bound to lose some of them. We just have to keep her from getting sixty-six.”

                    “What about God?” Castiel demands. “Why doesn’t He just stop this?”

                    The comfort around his shoulders vanishes abruptly, and Dean’s gaze jerks down and to the left.

                    “Dad’s busy,” he bites out.

_                     With what? _ Castiel wants to ask, but Dean straightens and takes a single step forward.

                    “We’ll be in touch,” he says.

                    It’s the only warning Castiel gets before he’s dropped back into his body. Light shines through the windows, and he can hear Balthazar and Bobby knocking around in the kitchen. Behind him, a page rustles. He lies on the floor for a few moments longer, staring unseeing across the room as he tries to parse the strange dream. His shoulders still tingle with the electric brush of feathers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your comments and kudos! As always, I'm free to chat at [ tumblr ](http://www.curiosity-killed.tumblr.com)!


	8. Chapter 8

“Wait, your little angel floated on down and didn’t wake any of us?” Balthazar demands.

Castiel sighs and reaches for his coffee. It’s not all that early, but there’s never really going to be a good time for this conversation.

“It was in a dream,” he says. “Like-”

“Astral projection,” Anna finishes.

Castiel nods. They’re all in the kitchen now, Anna’s book abandoned on the couch. Unsurprisingly, they’d been less than thrilled about Dean’s message, and Castiel had gone through two cups of coffee just relaying it and defending himself against their inquiries. His third is just a stalling tactic, now.

“Put the coffee down, Cas,” Anna suggests. “You’re going to be jittery as hell if you drink that.”

He meets her eyes and takes a stubborn drink. She rolls her eyes.

“All that was just to pat you on the back?” Bobby asks.

“And tell us the world’s ending,” Balthazar adds. “Can’t forget that bit.”

His voice is chipper and carefree, like the end of the world is a party rather than Armageddon, and sometimes Castiel wonders where they went wrong. He and Anna did their best to raise Balthazar properly after their father left. They didn’t always do it right, he knows, but they did as well as siblings two and four years older than their charge could.

“Yes, there was that,” Castiel concedes.

“Did he tell you anything else?” Anna asks. “What you’re supposed to do next or anything?”

Castiel shakes his head with a sigh.

“No,” he says. “He just said ‘we’ll be in touch’ and left.”

Bobby huffs a sigh and pushes himself out of his chair, mug in hand. It’s barely past eight a.m., but Castiel is willing to bet there’s more whiskey than coffee in that mug.

“Well, if you aren’t gonna’ be busy saving the world,” he says, “we got other work to do.”

“Got a case?” Balthazar asks.

Bobby shifts his shoulders in a shrug.

“I’m sure I’ll find one. For now, you can fix the windows,” he replies.

Balthazar groans, but it’s just for show. Within minutes, Anna and Castiel are loaded up in the truck to head to town. It’s a thirty minute drive to get to Lowe’s, and for the first ten, Castiel thinks he’s safe.

“So, what now, you just pop out of hell with an angel on your shoulder?” Anna asks.

“I don’t know, Anna,” he replies.

“Really,” she says.

Her hands are tight on the wheel, edges of knuckles turning yellow-white.

“What happened down there, Cas?” she demands.

 _Pain, blood, knives in his skin, in his hand - he is choking on someone else’s blood and -_ From somewhere, somehow, Dean’s wings settle like liquid lightning around Castiel’s shoulders. He releases a slow breath.

“I told you, Anna. I don’t remember,” he says.

“Of course,” Anna scoffs.

For the flicker of an instant, Castiel wishes Dean would appear here. It would break up the conversation, even if he doesn’t really believe the ensuing one would be any more enjoyable. It can’t be worse than this.

“You don’t have to lie to me, Cas,” Anna says quietly.

His gut twists like a wrung out rag. It’s only one more on a whole pile of them, but it makes him sick.

“I’m not.”

Anna doesn’t press it after that, but her lips are thinned and pressed into a pale pink line. They get through Lowe’s in fifteen minutes and drive back with the shims and glass carefully packed in the back of the pickup. The car is filled with a tense and angry static the entire way back to Bobby’s.

They help Balthazar remove the rest of the broken glass and together fit the new panes into place. By dinner, the new glass is set and shiny in the faded face of the old house. Anna still has broken her stranglehold on her anger, and Castiel takes dinner without any comment. Balthazar fills in the silence between them instead.

“Bobby’s got a case for us,” he announces. “Down in - what was it?”

“Liberty,” Bobby replies.

“Yeah, Liberty,” Balthazar continues. “Got people with melting eyeballs.”

Castiel blinks, half-eaten burger stopped partway to his mouth. When he glances at Bobby to check though, he doesn’t see any sign that Balthazar’s lying.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” Anna says.

“Nope,” Balthazar replies, popping the ‘p.’

 _God help us,_ Castiel prays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is shorter than usual; I intended to carry on through the case but decided to cut it off there. I have stuff going on all day today, so I will try to get CH9 posted tomorrow, but no promises.


	9. Chapter 9

               They roll into Liberty the next morning after leaving at three in the morning. Six hours is an easy night’s drive, and they pull into a gas station half an hour out for Balthazar and Anna to change into their suits. They’re both wont to tell Castiel that his people skills are too rusty for this kind of fraud, and he isn’t up to arguing. The less he has to lie, the better off everyone is.

               He fills the tank first before slipping into Shoemaker’s work to check for EMF. It’s a Sunday, and there’s no one in the local bank. It’s alarmingly easy to slip into Liberty Savings Bank, and Castiel offers up a silent thought of gratitude as he picks the lock on the bank’s door. His money will never work its way into any bank like this.  A cursory glance around the parking lot finds no one watching. He ducks inside.

               The pale blue of the walls and floor is painted purple by the morning shadows. He steps carefully around the edges of the rooms, avoiding the wide front windows and their painful lack of hiding places. There’s no one looking right now, but Castiel knows how easy it would be to spot him from the road a couple hundred yards from the front door.

               He’s just pulled out the EMF meter when there’s an echoing rustle of wings behind him. He stiffens automatically, and his hand shoots to the knife at his hip.

               “Heya Cas.”

               Castiel releases his breath slowly through his nose and lets go of the knife. When he turns, Dean’s leaning against the blue wall with a lazy grin on his lips. There’s a flicker of gold around him, like a second image laid over top of his rumpled shirt and torn jeans. It vanishes when he blinks.

               “Hello Dean,” he replies.

               The angel’s lips quirk up on one side, but he doesn’t say any more. He looks as fresh as the two times Castiel has seen him before, but there’s something underneath his skin, something pulling like exhaustion at his careless grin. Castiel frowns, but he doesn’t reach out. It’s none of his business. Dean has made it abundantly clear that he isn’t there for personal connections. 

               Castiel turns back to his work. Running the EMF meter around the vault and counters leads to nothing, and he closes it down with a sigh.

               “Are you here for a purpose, Dean?” he asks.

               “Oh, y’know, just checking in,” the angel answers.

               He grins as Castiel turns toward him. His hands are shoved in his pockets, but Castiel can still a catch a glimpse of the marks there. They’re a faint brown, just a shade darker than his skin. It’s too close a match for Castiel to make out what they are.

               “Unless you have news of the seals - I’m working,” Castiel retorts.

               “Whatcha’ working on?” Dean presses.

               Castiel heaves a sigh and drops his arms to his sides.

               “A vengeful spirit,” he replies. “Now, if you don’t have news of the seals, I’m working.”

               Dean doesn’t reply, and when Castiel’s turned around, the angel has vanished. He isn’t disappointed.

               “Anything?” Anna asks when Castiel picks them up.

               He shakes his head, and she lets out a frustrated sigh. Their trip to the victim’s home and to the morgue were equally fruitless.

               “One of the girls did say something about Bloody Mary,” Balthazar offers.

               Castiel squints at him in the rearview mirror.

               “That’s an urban legend,” he says.

               “C’mon, Cassie,” Balthazar retorts. “Angels are a goddamned myth, but you got one sitting on your shoulder.”

               Now would be a good time to mention Dean’s appearance. They should know, just in case. After all, secrets have never served the Remington family very well. 

               “Balthazar’s right,” Anna admits. “We can’t rule it out.”

               Castiel relents and steers them towards the strip motel they spotted on their way in. They spend the rest of the afternoon scouring local records for any murdered ‘Mary’s and turn up nothing useful. There’s a surprising amount of weird deaths for a small town in southern Missouri, but none of them involve a woman named Mary. 

               “How many people die here every year?” Anna demands.

               She’s scrubbed her fingers back into her hair, bunched it up around her knuckles. Castiel glances back down at his laptop screen.

               “No more than average,” he replies.

               “There’s nothing in the journal,” Balthazar remarks. “Father didn’t say anything about them.”

               He’s slouched on the edge of the bed, flipping through the weathered notebook. The bedside lamp shines through the pages, outlining the coded script, but Castiel can’t read any of it. For a moment, he’s reminded of the tattoos tracking faintly across Dean’s skin.

               “Maybe it’s just a medical mystery this time,” Anna suggests.

               Castiel blinks at her. Balthazar is silent. Then -

               “Who are you and where the hell is our sister Anael?” 

               Anna shoots Balthazar a withering glance over her shoulder and drops her hands to the formica table.

               “I’m just saying, maybe this time-”

               She’s cut off by Balthazar’s phone vibrating across the endtable. He snatches it up and flips it open with a thumb tip.

               “Hello,” he greets.

               Once upon a time, Anna and Castiel made up a game where they tried to determine what a phone call entailed by watching Balthazar’s expressions. Now, Anna glances over at him with both eyebrows raised and doesn’t say a word. He understands.

               Balthazar hangs up with a click and spins his phone between his fingers for a few moments.

               “Another one,” he says finally. “One of the girls we met at the funeral: Jill.”

               “Who called?” Anna asks.

               “The other friend - Charlie,” Balthazar replies. “They just found her body.”

               Castiel’s ribs cinch inwards.

               “Where?” he asks.

               “Middle of her front yard,” Balthazar replies. “Not a mirror in sight.”

               His lips are thinned in a laughless grin. He wears the same look every time he can’t quite figure something out and others’ lives are on the line.

               “What about the windows?” Anna suggests. “It’s dark enough she could’ve seen her reflection in them.”

               Castiel bites down on a protest. It doesn’t feel right. He doesn’t know why, but it doesn’t still the wriggling sense of unease working its way along his ribs. He knows, somehow, that this isn’t just an angry ghost. There’s something more at play here. He just doesn’t know what.

               “Why this girl?” he asks. “What connection did she have to Shoemaker?”

               “She was a friend of his daughter,” Anna explains. “She was with her at the funeral, but I don’t know any direct connection between her and Shoemaker.”

               “A vengeful spirit attached to the daughter?” Balthazar suggests.

               Castiel hesitates. A feeling isn’t enough to go on without any proof. He shouldn’t say anything.

               “I don’t think it’s a ghost,” he replies.

               “Then what, Cas?” Anna presses.

               It sounds ridiculous even in his head, and Castiel swallows down the aftertaste of coffee. It’s his own fault for speaking up; he can’t leave them with just that.

               “I think it’s the angels,” he finally answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a struggle - but it's here! And, apparently, I didn't need to make myself rewatch "Bloody Mary" twice. Exposure therapy??


	10. Chapter 10

                   “What are you talking about?” Anna demands.

                   “The angels?” Balthazar asks at the same time.

                   Castiel twists the paper cup in his hands, shifting the sleeve around the daisy-printed cup.

                   “Dean visited,” he blurts out. “Earlier.”

                   Both his siblings turn and stare, and Castiel fights the urge to lay face-first on the ground or bash his head against the table. Either would be more enjoyable than the narrowed eyes leveled his way.

                   “What?” Anna demands.

                   “Dean appeared when I was checking the bank,” Castiel explains. “He didn’t say why, but I think it has to do with this case.”

                   Balthazar scoffs and drops his phone to the endtable. When he stands, it’s with hands on his hips.

                   “Your angel buddy showed up here?” he demands.

                   “He seemed... off,” Castiel answers slowly. “I think something more is going on.”

                   “Like the Apocalypse?”

                   Anna’s voice is dry as the Nevada sun, and Castiel fights the urge to roll his eyes. He loves his sister, but her sarcasm can be frustrating.

                   “Like something he isn’t telling me,” he corrects.

                   Anna barks out a short laugh and stands. It knocks her chair back with an ugly screech, but she doesn’t seem to care. Instead, she paces back and forth across the peeling linoleum floor. Balthazar eyes her from the bed before settling back against the headboard. They aren’t escaping this any time soon.

                   “Cas, he hasn’t told you _shit_ ,” Anna spits. “He said he pulled you out of Hell and God’s got work for you and the world’s ending. He hasn’t told you why or what work or how to stop it. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he’s not acting much like any angels Father told us about.”

                   Her bare feet squeak against the floor as she turns back.

                   “In fact, the only reason we have to believe he’s an angel is because you said he told you he is one,” she continues. “The rest of us haven’t even seen him! How do we know this isn’t a demon or - or a hallucination or something? You were in _Hell_.”

                   “Bobby-” Castiel starts.

                   “Bobby saw someone come into the barn, and he thinks he saw them shrug off rock salt,” she interrupts. “He was knocked out. We have no way of confirming it.”

                   Castiel bristles. He’s used to the back and forth tug of disagreement among his siblings. It’s part of what has kept them alive for so long in this line of work: they ferret out each other’s weaknesses and help compensate for them. This feels like something else, like something uglier.

                   “Look, Cas, I love you, and I’m overjoyed you’re back. But something’s not right here,” she snaps.

                   He bites down on the inside of his bottom lip, locking in all the things he’d like to say back. She’s right, anyway. Dean keeps showing up when Castiel’s alone, and no one else can confirm his existence. As far as hallucinations from Hell - well, he’d rather not bring up exactly how close to home that hits. Even if Dean isn’t one, there are still plenty of other bloody wraiths lurking in the edges of his periphery.

                   They all flinch at the ruffle of feathers behind them. _Perfect._ It’s not as if Dean’s convenient timing will arouse any suspicions at all. Both Balthazar and Anna lunge for weapons, and Castiel rests his forehead in his hand.

                   “Hey there,” Dean greets.

                   “What the hell-”

                   “Who are you?”

                   Castiel takes a deep breath to steady himself and straightens. Anna’s gun is aimed right at Dean’s chest, and Balthazar holds a silver knife in one hand.

                   “Anna, Balthazar, this is Dean,” he introduces. “Dean, this is Anna and Balthazar. My siblings.”

                   Anna’s eyes widen and her lips part just slightly. For an instant, her face goes soft and slack with shock. Then, she straightens back into her shooting stance.

                   “You’re Dean,” she says. “The angel.”

                   It’s meant to be a question, Castiel knows, but it doesn’t come out as one. It comes out dry and doubting, like the belief was leeched out of her by the desert sun.

                   “Aw, you told your family about me?” Dean purrs.

                   Balthazar’s lips twitch upwards. Castiel has a brief premonition that this meeting is going to be the ruin of his sanity.

                   “Prove it.”

                   Across the room, Balthazar eyes Anna as if she’s well and truly lost her mind. His knife hand falls to his side.  Glancing over his shoulder, Castiel catches Dean grinning.

                   “Oh, I show you mine, you show-”

                   “ _Dean_ ,” Castiel hisses.

                   “Alright, alright,” Dean chuckles.

                   He rolls his shoulders forward with a slight hitch, and the shadows around the room grow and morph. Feathers spread from the edges, tips fanning out against the paisley walls. Anna’s gun clatters to the floor just seconds after Balthazar’s knife.

                   “Oh,” she breathes. “You’re - you’re real.”

                   Dean shrugs, and his wings recede from the walls. He stuffs his hands into his jeans pocket, rocking back on his heel.

                   “So, we good?” he asks. “We got shit to do.”

                   This snaps Anna out of her reverence. She crouches briefly to snatch up her gun, and though she doesn’t aim at Dean again, she holds it ready in her hand.

                   “No,” she says, “we’re not.”

                   Her voice is tempered steel, and the hairs on the nape of Castiel’s neck bristle to attention.

                   “You owe us answers,” she says.

                   Dean’s eyebrow quirks over hooded eyes, but the rest of his face is impassive. There is something cold and still there like a predator watching its prey. Castiel’s hand slides to the knife at his hip. It’s useless, he knows. It still makes him feel a little better.

                   “Owe?” Dean asks.

                   He takes a single step forward, and the walls seem to shudder. His voice is level and low, and it rings like a monster’s nightmare. For the first time, Castiel sees the myth behind the sunkissed skin. It’s terrifying.

                   “I hauled your brother’s ass out of Hell,” Dean continues. “I could throw him back down. And you - an abomination - think I _owe_ you? I don’t owe you shit.”

                   Anna flinches, and Castiel frowns. _Abomination?_ His sister looks guilty for the first time in his memory, and warning lights flare red behind his eyes. Before Lilith’s hellhounds ripped through his ribs and heart, Anna had said there was something she needed to tell him. She never got the chance.

                   “Now, can we get to work or are you gonna’ stand there a little longer?” Dean demands.

                   “Why are you here, Dean?” Castiel asks.

                   Dean turns to him, deflating immediately. He doesn’t grin this time, but the icy anger that had paled his eyes is gone.

                   “We got orders to get you out of here,” he explains. “There’s something big going down, and you don’t want to be caught in the crossfire.”

                   “What is happening?” Castiel presses.

                   Dean’s lips thin and his eyes flit to the bottom left.

                   “I can’t tell you,” he says, “but you have to leave - now.”

                   Castiel’s eyes narrow, weight shifting to the balls of his feet. He doesn’t quite understand Anna’s reticence in trusting Dean, but he’s not going to be chased from this case without a cause.

                   “People are dying, Dean,” he says. “We can’t leave until we’ve figured out what’s going on.”

                   The angel meets Castiel’s eyes. Even in the weak motel lamplight, his green eyes are wide and luminous. In the split second that their eyes catch, Castiel thinks he can see a nebulae bloom.

                   “I can’t tell you what exactly is happening, but it’s bigger than you three can take,” Dean finally says. “I told you we’re fighting a war? Well, you’re standing in the battleground.”

                   “If this is angelic, why did these people get killed?” Balthazar asks. “A banker and a teenage girl don’t seem important in the face of the Apocalypse.”

                   “They were vessels,” Dean replies. “We - angels can’t appear on Earth without filling a mundane form, and we all have unique bloodlines we follow.”

                   Somewhere in his chest, Castiel had known. After all, he’s been fighting demons for most his life; he can’t ignore the similarities with their celestial counterpart for his own conscience. It still makes his stomach coil up like wet rope.

                   “Ves - you possess people?” Anna demands. “Who’re you wearing now? Do you even know his name?”

                   She’s straightened back into dynamic anger, and her hands are sharp as she gestured at Dean. With her red hair lit by the lamp behind her, she looks like a just and righteous fury. Dean glances down at his own chest before meeting Anna’s eyes and canting his head to the side.

                   “He prayed for this,” Dean replies. “We can’t assume a vessel without their consent. It’s...a partnership.”

                   “Why would someone kill them?” Balthazar asks. “They’re just people until they’ve got an angel, right?”

                   His knife still lays beside his foot on the floor, but he doesn’t seem in a rush to retrieve it. Unlike Anna, Balthazar has settled back into his heels and though his arms are crossed, his brow is furrowed in thought.

                   “Because they don’t want the angels coming to Earth,” Castiel sums up.

                   Dean gives a slight nod. There’s something Castiel can’t quite parse in the angel’s expression. It’s underneath the golden skin and seaspray freckles - something hollow and sucking like misery. In that moment, he looks painfully human.

                   “So we just give up and leave these people to get murdered?” Anna demands.

                   “My garrison and I are doing everything we can to take care of it,” Dean answers. “You’re not abandoning anyone.”

                   He says it like a promise, a vow written in more than ink. Castiel can see the exact moment something in Anna eases and releases like a catch. They’re going home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, it always ends up taking way longer to get to the parts that I want to write than I ever expect. Like, at this rate, I won't get to the scene that started this fic till the 20s or something. No me gusta.
> 
> Along with that, I'm not sure how much I'll get posted this weekend. I'm booked from about 5pm tonight till noon tomorrow and then tomorrow evening as well. Hopefully I'll get some done in Bio!
> 
> Anyway, thank you guys so much for all your comments/kudos/etc! I have to be the luckiest fic writer to have such sweet readers, and it seriously lights up my day to read your comments. 
> 
> As always, I'm at [curiosity-killed](http://www.curiosity-killed.tumblr.com) if you want to chat, fangirl, or give me suggestions as to where in the world this fic is going :) 
> 
> Thanks for hanging in there!


	11. Chapter 11

                After Liberty, there’s radio silence from Dean. He doesn’t pop in, doesn’t appear in any dreams. Castiel even starts to miss the occasional calm that he’s realized is a brush of Dean’s wings. He doesn’t worry about the angel, of course, because that would be ridiculous. Dean’s an angel, after all.

                The siblings fall back into a routine. There are hauntings and a couple vampires and one particularly vicious wendigo. They get scraped up, bruised; they add whole volumes to their collections of scars and stories.

                It’s three days before Halloween, and the siblings are in town for a witch hunt. A man drowned on his own blood with razors lining his esophagus, and a teenage girl boiled to death bobbing for apples. The hex bags Castiel found in both victims’ couches only confirm what they already know. What they don’t, however, is who is doing it - or why.

                “This is very old magic,” Castiel says. “This herb - goldthread - has been extinct for centuries. And, as far as I can tell, this coin is authentic.”

                “Do I even want to ask about that?” Balthazar asks.

                Castiel follows his gesture towards the small, charred lump in the midst of the dissected hex bag. Laid out across the motel table, it looks like a diagram. _‘Figure 2b: Anatomy of a Hex.’_ Balthazar eyes it suspiciously.

                “I sincerely doubt it,” Castiel replies.

                Balthazar makes a face and takes a step back from the table. Anna huffs a sigh from her spot on one of the beds. Her duffel’s open beside her, but she hasn’t even begun cleaning her guns.

                “So what?” she demands. “There’s nothing connecting the two victims, no reason for a witch to target them.”

                “Unless it isn’t personal,” Castiel says.

                He’s just come across the passage, and his eyebrows climb as he reads it. In his periphery, Anna perks up and focuses on him.

                “What is it, Cas?” she presses.

                “This spell,” he says. “It requires three sacrifices over three days, with the last falling on the final day of the final harvest.”

                He looks up in time to see Anna’s expression still into understanding and dread.

                “Halloween,” she says. “Tomorrow.”

                Balthazar shakes his head slightly, arms crossed.

                “You two and your freaky trivia,” he mutters. “So what’s the spell for?”

                “If I am reading this right,” Castiel replies, “a demon - Samhain.”

                This time, even Balthazar’s eyebrows raise. He missed most their father’s lessons, but he didn’t escape them all.

                “As in the origin of Halloween Samhain?” he demands.

                Anna shakes her head.

                “That’s impossible,” she says. “Samhain was exorcised centuries ago, and you can’t just raise a demon like that willy-nilly.”

                “Only every six hundred years,” Castiel confirms.

                “And the six hundred year marker rolls around tomorrow, I’m guessing?” Balthazar asks.

                Castiel glances over and gives a nod. Dropping into the seat across from him, Balthazar huffs a sigh and tugs one of the open books across the table. The one Castiel is studying thunks onto the table as Balthazar takes the other, and Castiel shoots a futile glare at his brother. These are ancient books, and the knowledge they wield is powerful. They deserve respect.

                “Not to be dramatic,” Anna says, “but why does this always happen to us?”

                Balthazar breathes out a laugh, and Castiel presses his lips shut. _Penance_ , he wants to say. _Because I bring it on you._ It’s too self-important, too vain. He is nothing more than a pawn too low to even know the battle plans. This purgatorial waiting is his penance, not the dramatic trials they all face.

                “I don’t know,” he says, “but we need to find the witch to stop this.”

                “Where?” Anna presses. “There aren’t any connections between the victims. There’s no reason a witch would target both of them.”

                Castiel shakes his head. They have to have missed something, somewhere. Across from him, the chair screeches against hte linoleum as Balthazar scoots back.

                “I’ll go back by the widow’s place,” he offers, “see if I can get any more out of her.”

                “Be careful,” Anna says. “She was suspicious already. If she’s the witch...”

                Balthazar waves her concern away with one hand as he turns and flicks his jacket up over a shoulder.

                “Yeah, yeah,” he calls. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

                He snatches up the car keys by the ring, and the door rattles shut behind him. The room is silent for a heavy moment before Anna exhales and stretches. Her heels had been tossed off the moment they entered the room, and her bare feet squeak against the floor.

                “Want some help?” she offers.

                Castiel shrugs.

                “There isn’t much more to do,” he admits. “We’ve been over the lore already.”

                He hesitates after he says it, brow furrowing as he stares through the open book before him. He knwos the question he wants to ask, but he’s not sure he wants the answer. There are some things that should be told, he knows. There’s a reason he doesn’t bring up Hell.

                “C’mon, Cas, spit it out,” Anna says.

                “Dean called you an ‘abomination,’” he says. “Why?”

                Anna flinches at the question, and he feels something sick and bitter sour on his tongue. _Let me be wrong,_ he prays. _Let it be nothing._

                “I don’t know,” Anna says. “I guess - maybe it was the whole Azazel deal? Being one of his - kids.”

                Her fingertips are pressed white to the tabletop, blood leeching upwards out of them. Castiel’s heart sinks. A lie, then.

                “I mean, I’m not really up to judging an angel,” she continues, “but this Dean doesn’t exactly seem like your typical angel.”

                Castiel cants his head to the side.

                “He does seem...untraditional,” he concedes. “Although, I don’t know how accurate the lore can be. It is somewhat biased.”

                Anna laughs, and they’re back on solid ground. Her lie sits hollow and festering beneath their conversation, and Castiel lets it. She’ll tell him, someday, when she’s ready. If it were important, if it really mattered now, she wouldn’t lie. He lets it go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay on this. My writing muse up and got distracted by my original fiction and that's literally all I've been focusing on. I will try to get CH12 up ASAP, but it'll probably be about a chapter a week from here on out. Thanks for hanging in there!


	12. Chapter 12

                “It’s Tracy.”

                Balthazar’s voice is breathy and tense, and Castiel can imagine his driving. He offers a silent prayer that there’s little traffic out now.

                “The cheerleader?” Anna asks.

                “She said she didn’t know the guy, but she’s their babysitter,” Balthazar explains. “I showed the wife one of the pictures from the party, and she didn’t recognize the second vic, but she knew Tracy.”

                Anna shoots Castiel an uncertain side eye. They’ve gone on less before.

                “Okay, where are you headed now?” she asks.

                “The high school,” Balthazar says. “Her report says she had a ‘violent altercation’ with her art teacher.”

                “Pick us up,” Anna orders.

                Her voice brooks no argument, and distantly, Castiel can hear the squeal of tires and car horns honking. He winces. 

                In too short a time, Balthazar is back and honking outside their door. Castiel doesn’t get a chance to do more than glance at the car for damage; he doesn’t see any, but that doesn’t mean much. He’s not going to make the same mistake he did with the Volkswagen.

                It’s a short drive to the school, and if anyone thinks twice about three FBI agents showing up, they don’t say so. Instead, they’re directed down a right-angle hallway with flecked flooring that looks alarmingly close to vomit. Castiel steps carefully and hopes that there isn’t any camouflaged on the floor.

                The doorway to the art room is small and narrow, shortened even more by the masks hanging in it to dry. They’re bright, lopsided caricatures and parodies, but some seem familiar. Their blood-crusted cheeks and leering black eyes - hands sliding down his arms, warm with his own blood, and the screams - screams from every side from children and mother and -

                “Cas?” Anna prompts.

                He flinches, and her worried frown deepens. He clears his throat and gestures vaguely towards the masks.

                “The students are very - uh - creative,” he says.

                Anna’s eyebrows quirk up and she glances through the masks. She seems to concede the point, and they step fully into the studio. Balthazar grins, knocking his elbow against Castiel’s: there’s a student attempting to lower a suspiciously bong-shaped piece into the kiln.

                “Now, that’s my kinda’ art,” he grins.

                Before Castiel can reply, a teacher rounds the corner. He’s tall, with floppy black hair and a baby’s round face, and he smiles as soon as he sees them.

                “You wanted to talk to me?” he greets, extending his hand.

                “Mr. Harding,” Anna replies with a polite smile.

                “Oh, Don, please,” Harding says.

                He shakes their hands enthusiastically, and Castiel fights a grimace at his clammy skin.

                “Alright, Don,” Anna concedes.

                “Even my students call me Don,” Don continues, beaming.

                Anna’s lips twitch like she’s fighting back a laugh, and the trio slip out their badges.

                “I’m Agent Christie, these are Smith and Ellison,” she introduces. “We have some questions about Tracy Davis.”

                Don breathes out a gust of air and tucks his hands up under his armpits. It makes his palm frond-printed shirt blouse over his crossed arms, and his exaggerated grimace only emphasises the comic effect.

                “Oh yeah,” Don says. “Tracy. Bright kid, just loads of talent. It’s a shame she got suspended.”

                “You two had a ‘violent altercation’?” Anna prompts.

                “Yeah,” Don bobs his head in a nod. “She would’ve ripped out my eyes if Principal Murrow hadn’t walked by then.”

                Despite his words, Don seems incredibly untroubled by the event; his smile has faded, but his pale eyes still seem apathetic. Castiel can’t tell if it’s because it’s such a common event or because the man has been sharing in his students’ recreational activities. 

                “Why?” Balthazar asks.

                Don shrugs.

                “I was, y’know, trying to rap with her about her work,” he says. “It had gotten inappropriate - disturbing.”

                Castiel’s eyebrows raise, and he tamps down the urge to ask what was more inappropriate than the demonic masks in the doorway and the bong peeking out of the kiln.

                “How so?” Anna asks.

                “It was all real arcane,” Don explains. “She’d cover page after page with these symbols and then these drawings.”

                He shakes his head slightly and his limp mop swishes.

                “Graphic pictures of massacres - just all these bodies - and her in the middle, participating,” he finishes.

                “Symbols?” Balthazar asks. “Like this?”

                He digs in his pocket for a moment and pulls out a baggie. Inside, the coin from one of the hex bags gleams.

                “Yeah,” Don affirms. “That looks kinda like them.”

                Balthazar shares a look with Castiel and slips the coin back into his pocket.

                “Any idea where we could find Tracy?” Anna asks.

                “Probably her apartment,” Don says.

                “Her apartment?” Balthazar echoes.

                Don drops his hands to his pockets and shrugs. The shirt gets stuck halfway between its rumpled position and laying flat, but Castiel doesn’t feel the need to say anything. The man doesn’t seem too concerned by appearance.

                “Yeah, she got here about a year ago as an emancipated teen,” Don explains. “God only knows what her parents were like.”

                Anna nods.

                “Thank you, you’ve been a lot of help,” she says.

                They’re out the door and headed to the motel in moments. Suits are fine for interrogations, but dry-cleaning gets pricey when it’s to remove witch blood. They hurry, heels clicking against the concrete as Balthazar pulls out the keys. The door swings open, Balthazar freezes, and Castiel stumbles into his back. 

                “What are-” Anna starts from behind them.

                Dean lifts a hand to wave once at them from the middle of the room.

                “Hey Cas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be honest, I thought the last chapter and this chapter at least would only be one. Oops.
> 
> Anyway thank you guys so much for your comments and kudos and just for hanging in there with me!


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